


Wrong Scent

by Clockwork



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: M/M, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clockwork/pseuds/Clockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson can't stand the fact that Stiles doesn't smell right, doesn't smell like pack and decides to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Scent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jemisard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/gifts).



McCall had never accepted the pack, and despite how he'd come to it, Jackson still blamed him for being a fool. Isaac clung to it needfully as a man with a need to belong somewhere, somehow. Especially now that the others had gone and left him. 

Jackson though, now that he had overcome what they told him was the darkness of his mind, had to adjust to being part of the pack. Not a pet directed by another but a full member of the pack. A member who still looked at those around him as lesser beings than the glorious creature he was. Being one of them didn't change that he looked down on them as he always had. Some more than others.

No matter how much time he spent with the pack, or at least with McCall. Stiles wasn't one of them. He didn't smell quite right, didn't even feel right to Jackson. What before had been just the arrogance of a boy who knew his place in the world and reveled in it, now was the instincts of a wolf that felt an outsider was drifting much too close to those that belonged to him.

Slowly the others drifted out of the locker room after practice, laughing and joking. Lahey was practically plastered to McCall's side, but Stilinski wasn't with them. No. Jackson had made sure of that. Instead the boy was going through everything, trying to find his backpack. It had taken two seconds to hide the bag while Stiles was in the shower. Now, when they were the only ones there, he was still looking even as Jackson slid closed the deadbolt on the door, ensuring they were alone.

"Hey! Whittemore! Have you seen my…"

Even as he turned to look up at him, Jackson held the bag in his hand as he stood by the door in nothing but black boxer briefs, water from his shower leaving his hair damp and his shoulders glistening.

"Oh! Hey, there it is."

Excited, he bounded over like the puppy he should have been, reaching for the backpack. Jackson jerked it away.

"You don't even ask," he said, voice lower than usual but still warmer than it had been when he'd still been answering to another. "What happened to your manners, Stilinski?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, tossing his hands in the air. "Oh. My. God. Are you really going to be a dick about this? Just give me the bag, Jackson. I'm already late as it is."

"Late for what," he asked, tossing the pack behind him, listening to it as the canvas slid over the floor with a soft whoosh. "Meeting up with Scott," he asked, stepping closer, one step to the side, putting himself between Stiles and the bag, between the boy and the door. "Maybe rushing off to do more research, pretending you're one of us when you don't have the guts to do it right?"

"Yeah, because watching you kill people while you were bald and scaly so makes me want to join."  
"All you'd have to do is ask. I did and Derek doesn't even like me. You though, you're practically Danny aren't you? Everybody loves Stiles. It could be a sitcom."

As he spoke, Jackson advanced on Stiles. All cold smile and hollow gaze. Arrogant. Almost cruel despite that smile. Every step Jackson took, Stiles retreated a step. That he was running, in that slow, uncertain way, nearly made Jackson salivate. Eyes narrowing as his body tightened, hardened in reaction to the fear that was starting to cling to Stiles' like cologne.

"Shame you're not being funny," Stiles countered. Another step and he hit the wall with a yelp.

Jackson smiled. 

"I wasn't trying to be funny," he admitted, advancing still until he was very nearly brushing again Stiles' lanky form. Close without brushing against him, able to feel the heat radiating against his bare chest and boxer briefs. "I'm trying to show you what you're missing."

Stiles wasn't going to go anywhere. Jackson realized that. It was either convince him to join so there wasn't that constant irritation whenever he was around the others, whenever Stiles was around. Or there was making sure he left. Either worked for him, it just needed to be one or the other.

"I get what I'm missing, Jackson. Hurting people. Losing control. Dealing with Peter Hale. Not to mention being an asshole on the full moon. Or, in your case, an asshole all the time."

Sharp words. Jackson would give him that. Except, as his nostrils flared, he could still scent fear but there was something else there. Something Jackson hadn't expected. He laughed, a hard sound as his hand grabbed Stiles' wrist, making sure he couldn't bolt.

"You want me. I mean, everyone wants me but you're panicking and afraid and you want me."

"Ha! Double ha! Your ego's bigger than you are," Stiles said, gaze dropping down to the fly of Jackson's boxers. Whatever he'd been meaning to say came to a screeching halt at the hard length that tented the front of Jackson's boxers. His eyes widened, cheeks flushing deep red.

"Would you like to try that again, Stiles," he asked, his grip around his wrist tightened, drawing his hand to that bulging length. "What's bigger?"

For a moment they were at a standstill. Jackson could hear the racing rhythm of Stiles' heart, even the wet sound of him swallowing. Jackson's breath caught in his throat as he felt the watery thrum of Stiles' pulse through his fingertips drumming against the shaft of his cock. 

"Stroke me," he murmured, fingers still curled around the delicacy of Stiles' wrist though he didn't force him to stroke. Instead he watched, waiting for the boy to do what he was told.

The seconds ticked by.

"Stilinski, you heard me," he growled, voice low, rumbling through him. His eyes flashed gold.

And Stiles groaned, fingers tightening around Jackson's cock, stroking the length of him with a jerking, stuttering twist of his wrist. 

"Is that what it is," he asked, fingers uncurling from Stiles' wrist, hand raising and his palm slapping against the wall beside the other boy's head. "The wolf gets you going, does it? Don't want to be one but get off on it?"

"Shut up."

His hand moved with quick, steady strokes though. Jackson didn't say a word, waiting with that crocodile smile. A moment later the boxers were jerked down, elastic catching around the tops of his thighs. He had him.

"That's a good boy," he murmured, leaning in as he dragged his tongue along Stiles' cheek.

Stiles jerked way, head hitting the wall. That didn't stop him, nimble fingers curling tighter around Jackson, his strokes rough, almost as if he was trying to punish with those movements.

"So angry," he growled, the sound low, less than human as he leaned back, his eyes ochre and lips distended around his fangs.

"Get on your knees, Stilinski. We're going to do this right."

"Fuck you, Jackson, I'm not…"

His hand caught Stiles' jaw, pushing up with the heel of his hand under his jaw. His claws just barely brushed the edge of his jaw.

"Don't argue. You want it. I can smell it on you. You want the wolf, and when I told you to stroke me, you get hard, Stiles. Stop playing games and do what you're told."  
He didn't push him down, jerking his hand away as one perfectly manicured brow arched in expectation. 

Stiles sank down, back sliding along the wall as his knee bumped Jackson's calf. 

Staring down at him, feeling the dangerously fast beat of his heart through the touch of his fingers.

"I've never…"

"Then open your mouth and watch your teeth," he said, claws still out as Jackson took hold of himself, rubbing the precome slicked head of his cock over Stiles' lips. "Open."

Stiles opened his mouth.

That was all he needed. 

Pushing past his open lips, deep and steady. He wasn't worrying about Stilinski, moving with strong snaps of his hips as he fucked the shallow heat of his mouth.

"Tilt your head. You need to learn to do this right," he growled, the flare of his eyes brighter, golden as he started a steady rhythm. 

The first time Stiles gagged, Jackson growled, shoving deeper with the next thrust. "Come on. Relax, Stilinski. You're loving it."

Or he was. Slick heat and a willing mouth, using him without reckless abandoned. Each thrust came with a growl, a soft sound that wasn't quite a moan. Every shudder that went through Stiles made him groan, watching bright eyes water as his hands clenched and unclenched uselessly at his side.

Suddenly he jerked out, hand sliding along his spit slicked length.

"Keep your eyes open," he snarled, the sound lusty as he gave the head a couple of jerks. Coming over the bridge of Stiles' nose, against his cheek. Panting softly as he leaned closer, rubbing the head against the other cheek before jerking away.

Not even looking at him as he jerked up his jeans, buttoning them as he turned away.

"Now you smell right," he growled, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head as he headed for the door. "See why they keep you around though," he admitted, unlocking the door and strolling out, leaving Stiles where he knelt, come on his face and his dick hard.


End file.
